


Spin for Me

by notsugarandspice



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 90s setting, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst, Drug Addiction, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Alternating, Physical Abuse, Prostitute! Eddie, Psychological Trauma, Reddie, Slow Burn, Stozier (beginning), Stripper! Eddie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-03-30 06:06:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13944627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notsugarandspice/pseuds/notsugarandspice
Summary: Spin for me, I'll let my bruises do the talking. If you close your eyes, I'll disappear, but maybe not tonight. You're too good for this world, I won't save you.





	1. Chapter 1

Eddie is dancing to the sound of the music he doesn’t care about, hips swinging in an automated motion. It doesn’t bother him that people are looking, he enjoys the attention. _I do this for myself_. His hand easily glides on the shiny metal, and he spins around the smoke-filled air, lost in the movement. Some remixed rap song that lasts for more than six minutes is playing, and nothing but the thoughts of getting back home motivates him to keep moving. People in that club love Eddie – he’s quiet, doesn’t cause any fights, and doesn’t deny clients. _Ever_. Eddie is also the youngest there which makes the entire situation simply tragic.

His toned body moves to the beat of the culminating song, and he just counts the minutes until the end of the night. Spinning around the pole is like second nature to Eddie, but he would never have chosen it voluntarily. He gets on stage, moves until the exact two hundred and forty minutes pass, and then finally fully opens his eyes to exit. He has exactly one bathroom break that he uses after precisely one hundred and twenty minutes and sips the yellow water from the sink to keep himself from passing out. Eddie never stays overtime, and never speaks to anyone while he’s working.

As he takes the last spin, Eddie starts to slowly open his eyes and observe his surroundings. _5_ _–_ _4_ _–_ _3_ _–_ _2_ _–_ _1._ He wants to close them again. _Another horde of filthy fuckers._ He straightens up feeling the bruises on the inside of the thighs spreading. He is about to leave the stage when he notices a group of young people sitting at the far corner of the waving podium. Eddie suddenly hears the pounding in his ears that may or may not have anything to do with music. One man, in particular, stands out so much to him that he does what he has never done at this job before – Eddie leaves his usual post and goes in the direction of the group. He drops down on all fours as he makes his way to them, and automatically picks up the festive mood. _Must be a 21 st birthday._

The young man who distracted Eddie is laughing out loud with his friends, and they don’t notice his approach until he is crawling to the edge of the stage in their direction, his moves catlike and seductive. The only female of the group finally takes notice and gasps from surprise, nudging the broad-shouldered man next to her. But Eddie’s eyes travel left. Even in the dark room full of bouncing pink light, he notices large, beautiful, brown eyes with lashes he would kill for. For the first time in his life, he wishes he was an ordinary boy with a respectable family who could be with someone who wears a button-down shirt to a strip club. That man looks like he was dragged there against his will. _He will never come back here again._ His nervous laugh and unfocused gaze told Eddie more than he needed to know about why the man was there.

“And what are young people like you doing in a place like this?” asks Eddie seductively, the bright blue thong rubbing his sore hole uncomfortably.

“We came to see you, sweetheart,” says the female of the group, squirming in someone’s lap. Eddie’s opinion of her is stuck between endearing and annoying.

“I can sense a celebration here,” says Eddie, ignoring the dirty looks thrown by brown-eyes' friends.

“This boy right here can finally drink with us!” exclaims a tall young man with dirty blond hair who the birthday boy pays not attention.

“Well, can I interest the no-longer-a-boy in a private dance?” asks Eddie desperately and the man’s eyes are on him, and he has never felt so exposed.

There is a loud collection of _OOOOOH_ that are accompanied by a lot of expected shoulder pushing and gregarious laughing. For some reason, this is the first time Eddie feels uncomfortable in a company of people like those. He patiently observes brown-eyes, knowing full well that the situation is making him uncomfortable. Somehow, Eddie feels obligated to remove him from the group. He finally sees the man nod and catches his eyes for the first time since he crawled by, and his skin suddenly feels sticky sweet. Eddie stands up and walks off the nearest staircase to take brown-eyes' cold hand and lead him away.

The undressing stares that his friends are giving him are expected - Eddie knows he is gorgeous. _This beauty is skin-deep, baby_. Holding the hand of a complete stranger has never felt more reassuring to Eddie, and he is suddenly smiling for the first time on his job, noticing how uncomfortable the sides of his mouth feel from the unusual movement. Overwhelmingly tall heels clicking on the tile floor, Eddie walks patiently towards one of the curtained private rooms, his sweaty hand feeling small in brown-eyes’ large one. _Oh, I_ _’_ _d let him wreck me._ He sits him down in the chair and starts to slowly sway, trying to keep eye contact. Somehow, he feels a bit self-conscious, as if the man shouldn’t see Eddie’s almost naked body.

“You don’t seem like the type of men I see around here,” says Eddie, attempting to dissolve the tension, his hands on the other man’s knees.

“I’ve never been before,” says brown-eyes running a hand through the dark hair, his words slurred from excessive drinking.

“Don’t get me wrong, young people are here all the time. You just don’t strike me as someone who enjoys strip clubs.” Eddie turns around, bending over in front of the man and smiles when he sees him squirm.

“I’m… not sure,” says brown-eyes, his eyes traveling down Eddie’s body with the speed of light, going back to his eyes.

 _I don’t want to be here anymore._ Eddie tries to compose his dance moves into a smooth performance, but everything is just falling apart. The song feels too dirty, and the other man’s eyes are dark but in a way that makes Eddie feel his _soul_ screaming with desire and something else, and it’s too much. Eddie knows that he can’t possibly hope to be with a man like this one. Making money isn’t easy, but making relationships that last is even harder. He tries to stop the trail of miserable thoughts that enter his mind, but his dancing was suffering considerably.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m not myself tonight. I’ll call someone else for you.” _I never want to leave._

Eddie starts to turn around, but the man catches his arm, staring up with glistening eyes. “Your name?”

“Fall,” says Eddie turning back completely, one of his hands still held. It burns even though the man’s hand is cold.

“That’s not it,” says brown-eyes, eyes traveling all over Eddie’s face. _You don_ _’_ _t belong in my world, baby._

“I’m sorry…” Eddie lets go of the other’s hand running out of the room, but not before catching brown-eyes' miserable expression.

Eddie falls on the floor of the dressing room but not before he grabs the tin trashcan, throwing up clear liquid. His legs are shaking, and his stomach feels weak, ready to purge any second. Eddie feels _dirty_ for the first time since he got that job and he has _never_ felt this dirty in his life.

He wants to rub his skin clear off and then scrub some more. He didn’t even hate himself when a bearded man almost choked him to death last week, pounding his ass into oblivion. But those _eyes,_ the saw right through him, and he couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take a second of it. Eddie throws his heels to the other side of the room in exasperation and moves the trashcan back under his makeup table, and everything feels _wrong._

And then he stands up, and as if on autopilot he takes off the thongs and puts his day clothes, rubs a makeup wipe on his face before grabbing his duffel bag and stepping out into the hallway. His nose is instantly hit with a smell of puke and smoke, but it’s too familiar to even notice.

“I’m out, Jackson,” screams Eddie from the hallway to his manager as he runs out into a rainy ungodly early morning.

“I thought you already left!” he hears Jackson’s raspy scream as the backdoor slams.

Eddie is grateful for the cold drops hitting his face, and all he sees behind his lids is glistening brown.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _The music was bad in the car, but here it_ _’_ _s just borderline shameful. Would it hurt them to put on some blink-182?_ Richie is stumbling towards a dimly lit bar, the only source of illumination coming from a pink hue behind the shelves of liquor bottles. He thinks he holds someone’s hand at some point, but everything is a blur, and it’s hard to decipher.

He turns his head and sees Bev standing next to him, pounding her hand on the black glossy surface in an attempt to get attention from a bartender. _The music is too loud._ There are two women talking at the other end of the bar, one of them leaning in occasionally to barge into the other’s space. _I don_ _’_ _t want to be here._

The bartender eventually makes his way over to them, and Richie feels a hand on his hip, and a wave of nausea hits him involuntarily. _I told you I don_ _’_ _t want to go._ Stan squeezes the ride side of his hip, and he wants to burn those pants in a pile of everything else his boyfriend has ever touched. A very attractive dark skinned bartender leans over the counter to ask Stan for the order, and he keenly leans forward as well, practically purring in the man’s ear. Richie finds it comforting that he doesn’t feel a pang of jealousy.

Stan’s hand doesn’t feel as tight on him anymore, and he stumbles into his ginger friend a bit, and she does same in turn to her husband. Both of them giggle, and Richie wants to throw up. He grabs a tequila shot that was just placed in front of his female friend and downs it surprisingly quickly, and Beverly _laughs. It_ _’_ _s okay. She doesn_ _’_ _t know._ He detaches himself from the counter and stumbles towards the large cushioned seats in front of the waving stage. His eyes are focused on the chair that’s angled towards the closest pole, and he keeps it in his direct line of vision, even though everything else seems to bend around him.

Richie’s body somehow finds its way into the seat, and he throws his head back in an attempt to relieve the heavy sensation, only to make it worse. His head snaps forward, and it _hurts_ how much he wants to throw up, but he won’t. _I can_ _’_ _t._ He wants to say he saw Beverly approach him but he couldn’t see past his own hands. _Everything is bending._ Ben’s laughter is distant and loud, _so loud,_ it seems louder than the music.

Stan plops onto the seat directly in front of him, and Richie sees the yellow liquid swirling in the beer bottle, and the motion is _sickening,_ but not as sickening as Stanley’s smile. He forces one onto himself involuntarily, mostly out of habit. Richie knows his face must resemble a ghost, with a tint of green from nausea and a smile that can only be described as haunting, but he’s not here to make a scene – it’s his birthday after all. Bev is halfway in Ben’s lap, and Stan nudges them playfully making the other two laugh.

“Get a room!” his boyfriend screams and Richie wants to scream too but he laughs instead, and it comes off forced and screechy.

Stan is about to stand up from his chair, a dark intent of going towards Richie written all over his face when they are interrupted by a male strip dancer. And Richie feels like he is in a trance, watching that nymph crawling towards them but the laughter is still fresh on his lips, borderline hysterical.

“And what are young people like you doing in a place like this?” The young man is basically purring, and Richie’s dick twitches at the sight of a perky ass that makes an appearance behind tan shoulders.

“We came to see you, sweetheart,” says Bev and she is _whistling,_ making Richie laugh harder even though his eyes are burning from holding back tears.

“I can sense a celebration here.” Richie can’t tear his eyes away, the dancer’s lashes are flopping like the wings of a black butterfly, and it’s _intoxicating._

“This boy right here can finally drink with us!” screams Stan, pointing his beer towards Richie, some liquid spilling out on the small glass table between them. _Fucking hell._

“Well, can I interest the no-longer-a-boy in a private dance?” Richie can almost hear the desperation in the man’s voice, and he is _melting. Take me. Take all of me away from here._

Their eyes finally connect properly for the first time, the music instantly becomes a hum, and Richie can’t hear a thing, but he could swear he heard the man’s lashes flutter. The dancer watches him with desperation, and his position is still so compromising, and Richie’s thoughts are a collection of things that will get send him straight to darkest pits of hell. _I don_ _’_ _t care. Take me._ He nods.

The pleased expression on the man’s face shouldn’t be so endearing, but Richie’s head is a jumbled mess, and all he wants to do is follow the dark-haired nymph to the edge of the Earth. His shoulder feels a large hand on it, but he doesn’t even look, his eyes never leaving the form of a beautiful man getting off the stage. Stan whispers something in his ears, and he doesn’t _hear,_ doesn’t even try to listen because the man is now standing right in front of him, and his eyes register nothing else.

Richie likes the way the pink strobing light reflects on the man’s skin that’s glistening with bits of sweat, and his hot hand is soft. _Too soft._ Richie’s cock jumps up as a drop crawls down the man’s spine and loses itself at the beginning of a blue thong, and he can’t even bring himself to walk faster, feeling like he is being dragged. _Take me anywhere._

He doesn’t remember getting into a large leather seat, and he sees the beautiful man dancing in front of him, a red curtain behind him. Richie doesn’t know what to do so he just stares, because that’s the only thing he’s capable of.

“You don’t seem like the type of men I see around here,” said the dancer, his eyes a dark brown, Richie now sees.

His shiver feels delayed when the man put his hands on the knees. “I’ve never been before.” Richie distantly hears his voice as a slurred _wreck_.

“Don’t get me wrong, young people are here all the time. You just don’t strike me as someone who enjoys strip clubs.” The dancer turns his back bending down, and Richie’s balls are _blue,_ it’s painful now.

“I’m… not sure.” Richie doesn’t want to be rude so when the man turns back around he merely runs his eyes through his body before landing on the deep brown soul-searchers above him.

Next thing he knows he wants to _cry_ how much he wants to touch the man. _Touch me. Take me. Do anything you want._ It wasn’t the first time in his entire life he had adulterous thoughts, but this time he finds that he barely cares at all. Guilt doesn’t sit heavy in his stomach - desire does.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m not myself tonight. I’ll call someone else for you.” _What is happening? Don_ _’_ _t leave. You_ _’_ _re perfect._

Suddenly, the man is standing up straight, and his expression is pained, and Richie can’t even remember what he was doing the past couple of minutes. _Did I do something?_ He grabs the man’s wrist before he can leave the room and his chest feels tight, his stomach in knots.

“Your name?” _Please._

“Fall,” said the man facing him completely and Richie didn’t want to let go. Maybe ever.

“That’s not it.” _Oh, baby, don_ _’_ _t do this._

“I’m sorry…” The man lets go of his hand to pry his fingers open, and Richie feels like scratching his heart right out of his chest.

The next thing he sees is the concrete floor of a parking lot, and he knows he is half-carried because he can’t feel his legs, or feet. His friends laugh in the background, and they’re indoors now, somewhere familiar, maybe even his place. Richie is slumped over a bathtub, his throat is burning and stinging at the same time, and his head has never felt heavier. Someone’s hand is on his back, but he wants to swat it away. He loses consciousness with burning tears in his eyes, and all he wishes for are warm hands in his cold ones.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You look like a butterfly,  
> Burning in the wind,  
> Like an airplane  
> Falling to the ground.

Eddie smokes a cigarette with nonchalant desperation. Today was just one of those days. One of the many days when he could only sleep for 3 hours. He realizes that he wants to find another job for the first time in 3 years. _I can’t do this anymore._ It's not the dancing, or the occasional sex for money. No, because it pays well and it rarely seems to matter to Eddie whether he has to bend over for it. But something inside him feels  _rotten, spoiled, damaged._ He doesn't need a shrink to tell him where it came from. 

He reminisces the last time he felt happy – the first year after high school. Eddie remembers smiling wide - a notion too wild for him now to even think about. He wore clothes that matched, and cigarettes were a foreign concept. He used to go to the movies, meet up with friends, spend some time outside of the hellhole that the club became. It used to be his safe haven. A safe place to run away from himself. He doesn't really trust for it to be that anymore.

Eddie thinks about the sweet boy he met after high school, and how he made him feel. It was the first time he was with a man. The first time he admitted to himself - _I'm queer. This is me. Fuck you, ma._

He also remembers the man he cheated on him with, and how long he tried to convince himself that it was a drunken accident. He was barely tipsy. Eddie thinks of the time he moved in with that boy, and the amazing nights they shared together in this minuscule trailer. Standing in front of its rusting metal door, which was also its only door, Eddie remembers the time he hit the boy for the first time. 

Eddie wishes repressed memories were real. He wishes he could forget.  _Go the fuck away! Go away!_ A small image of his mother appears, a frying pan coming in closer then moving away. His forehead is bleeding, and he can't even open his eyes anymore.  _Stop, mama. I'll be good, I promise._ That was the day she found photos of naked men under his bed. He refuses to believe he is the way he is because of Sonia. He refuses for her to have control.  _She's dead. She doesn't control me._

Eddie is small but strong; he has always been that way. He just never thought that his strength would be used against someone, instead of pure self-preservation. He remembers the boy's tears and how horrible it made him feel. He was crouching in front of him, horrified at what his own hands did mere seconds ago, hugging him close to his chest.  _I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry._ The boy didn't even flinch away from the embrace, and Eddie should've known that the submissiveness will be his undoing. For something dark and deep inside him to take advantage of.  _He should've left then and there._

He stands in front of his beat-up trailer, surrounded by the smell of smoke and rotten eggs lying on the ground, not getting picked up for weeks. Because that part of town was disregarded  _even_ by the large green garbage trucks. Eddie imagines all the ways his life could go if only he didn’t throw that punch. If only he didn't become a monstrous semblance of his mother.

The punches didn't end there. Eddie started drinking. _A lot._ His mother died. He never went to the funeral but showed up at the cemetery wobbly and lucid, sitting down on her tombstone and spitting on the ground which covered her casket. He came back the next day with daisies and cried until the Sun came down.

He lost his job at the department store - he missed too many days and smelled like liquor. They didn't want him. Nobody but the boy did. But, somehow, it still wasn't enough.

Eddie didn’t need a restraining order to protect the boy from him – 3 broken ribs were enough for him to leave and for Eddie to start hating himself. More than he did before.  _I would’ve graduated college this month. I could’ve already been married,_ thinks Eddie as memories of his lost hope dawn upon him. Maybe if he was with a woman, he wouldn't hit her. Maybe he wouldn't have raised his hand, hearing his mother's voice like a broken radio.  _Bad boy. Bad boys don't touch other boys. Let me show you how a woman would touch you._ Eddie's body shivered so much, his leg cramped up.

He slams a cigarette with his foot hard into the ground, making a note of how fast he smoked it. Or maybe it wasn't that fast. The concept of time escaped him nowadays. It's only the ringing of an alarm precisely twenty minutes before his shift that catches his attention. But he never looks at the numbers - Eddie just slams his hand on the small rectangle and gets ready. Last night he got off at his usual time, 2:00 AM, but he didn't sleep long. The sun was still in hiding, and he was staring off into the distance, cold shivers running through him, a silky blue robe flailing behind, the string that held it together lost long ago.

The taste of a cheap cigarette is sour in his mouth, and he goes to brush his teeth for almost a minute, too entranced in his thoughts to notice the strength of his movements, spitting out pink foam. Scratching an eczema patch on his left buttock for the 15th time that morning, Eddie remembers to put some ointment on it, thinking that his ragged appearance wouldn’t do good for the clientele. He looks at the outline of the moon against the blue sky. There was a full Moon at midnight, and it's still in the sky, but much lower now. Somehow, Eddie feels a great degree of comfort looking at it falling hour by hour, getting replaced by the orange ball of fire that somehow signifies the beginning of the new day. A new day for Eddie starts when he wakes up. _If_ he can get any sleep. But he was almost always greeted by the Moon, not the Sun. Maybe that means something.  _You never see the daylight, and you're afraid of yourself. You're so afraid, your skin is part of this trailer now._

Eddie sighs heavily and lights another cigarette.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I already told you about a hundred thousand times. I lost my fucking wallet here last night. Your cheap ass alcohol is enough to make anyone buggering out on the streets." He clutches his head, desperately trying to ease the pain pulsating in his temples.

"You don't need to be such a dick about it. I'm not a fucking wallet keeper, and you're being disrespectful."

"Whatever, man, can you just fucking tell me where your 'lost and found' is?" Richie feels another wave of nausea hit him, and he has to throw his head back to avoid purging straight on the bar top.

The man snorts and Richie fights an urge to wreck his teeth in. If he didn't look like a semblance of a nice person, he might've done it.  _You bet your fur._  

“Billy, don’t worry about it. I can help him with that,” says a man behind Richie. He turns around to look and feels his heart rate speed up.

“Suit yourself,” answers the bartender and Richie sees him make it around the bar to the other side to whisper something to an attractive dark-skinned man who seemed to serve a function of a bouncer today. Richie is surprised he remembers him.

Richie turns his attention to the man before him and can't help but feel some sort of familiarity there. He feels instantly drawn, like a moth to a flame, aware of the possibility of it consuming him whole. He finds he doesn't care much if it does. An image of a small drop of sweat making its way down somebody's tan spine flashes before his eyes, making his whole body flush.  _What the-_

The man smiles weakly and starts walking out of the club waving a hand indicating Richie to follow him. He keeps walking towards the empty parking lot and further towards a beat-up silver Toyota standing in the corner, closer to the back door. Richie follows blindly as if in a trance, observing the way weak sunlight reflects on an array of freckles on the man's calves.  _Toned calves._ Richie's heart is threatening to jump out of his chest, crashing into the back of this stranger, spluttering and thrashing around. He doesn't understand why his body's reacting like this, but he feels more alive than he has in a while.

“Um, sir? I don’t think we’re going to find my wallet in the parking lot,” says Richie, looking around the ground to find nothing but cigarette butts and an open condom packet in the distance, covered in dirt and dust.  _Much like everything in this place._

“First, it’s Fall. Second, I wasn’t really thinking of a possibility of your wallet laying around the parking lot somewhere, because trust me, it would’ve been stolen by now,” says the man, turning around to face Richie. He notices that Fall must be at least a foot shorter than him. But the man's eyes are intense dark browns, and Richie feels shorter than a dirty mushroom in a graveyard.

“Is there a ‘lost and found’ here somewhere?” 

The man snorts and Richie sees his struggle not to laugh. “Good fucking luck trying to find that here,” answers Fall with what seems like a thoroughly amused expression.

Then the man sighs heavily and leans on what Richie assumes to be his car. “Okay. I’ll level with you. It’s possible that your wallet fell out in the private room, but I haven’t noticed anything. Anyway, there could’ve been a dozen people there afterward.”

“What private room?”

Fall takes a beat to answer and then closes his eyes as if he finally realized something. “Oh, of course," the man laughs sarcastically, "A private room I gave you a private dance in? Scraped all your innocence? Ring any bells?"

Richie could feel the blood draining from his face. A swift image or thick black lashes flashes before him.  _Butterfly wings._

Suddenly, the man starts laughing hysterically, doubling back in front of Richie. “I’m just joking, man. Jesus fuck, you look like you’ve seen a ghost." He wipes an imaginary tear out of his eye.

“Feels like it, yeah." Richie couldn't figure this person for the life of him.  _Why are you so vague? Who are you?_ "Is this a gay club?"  _I'm gonna kill Stan._

The man's face is more of a shadow now, all trace of a smile gone. "No, it's not. I'm the only male dancer here."

"Why?"

"Why  _what,_ exactly? Why is a man a stripper? Why did they hire a man? Who would want to look at a man dancing?" Fall doesn't sound offended, even smiles a bit but his voice is strained.

"None of those. Why do you do this?" Richie sees the man raise his eyebrows and scoff, shaking off a shocked expression. But nothing else follows. Richie is suddenly aware of a muffled scream coming from the back door, but the man in front of him doesn't even flinch, so he ignores it.

"What's your name?" Richie's throat goes dry with anticipation. 

There's a glint in the man's eye that reminds Richie of the Sun reflecting off the dark waves. "Sly, aren't you? What makes you think Fall isn't my real name?"

"Same reason I don't buy the bullshit of you enjoying working in this dump."

The man raises his eyebrow again and gives Richie a once over with a lopsided smile. Richie feels his lower abdomen burn numbly, his hands feeling sweaty and tingly. He wipes them on his jeans unceremoniously. 

Fall seems to be thinking something over. Richie just noticed how his soft brown hair moves softly with the wind. “Wanna get a drink?" asks the man, the glint in his eyes intensifying to a dull shine.  _You're intoxicating._

"Um... It's eight in the morning." Richie feels the taste of last night's liquor on his tongue and bites back a whine.

"Your point?"  _Fuck, that cheeky smile._ "Tell you what: you have a drink with me, tell me why your friends had to  _drag_ you here for your twenty-first, and I might consider telling you my real name." Richie can't tell, but the man's voice seems almost pleading, nothing like a ragged scratch he heard a minute ago.

He grins wide because he can't help it, the sides of his mouth hurting from the unfamiliar motion. "Alright, patna _'_ , pip pip and tally ho to mornin' intoxication!"  _Ah, fuck. Why can't I keep my mouth shut?_ Richie realizes that he behaves a lot like his teenage self around this man. 

Fall's eyes glisten, and he stands still for a couple of seconds before bursting into uncontrollable laughter, holding onto the side of his car. Richie has never been more pleased to make a person laugh. Richie suddenly feels a pang of sharp pain in his chest: the man must not laugh a lot for that bullshit to sound funny.  _I want to make you laugh. Take me anywhere._

"C'mon, Dave Chappelle," sais the man and nods his head for Richie to get in on the other side. There is now a barely noticeable blush on Fall's cheeks, and Richie can't help but smile wide, his chest tight but head feeling lighter than ever before. Those emotions almost numbed the pounding hangover ringing in his ears.

Fall starts the car and lowers his window, pulling out a pack of minty Camel's. Richie's stomach jumps in excitement, his mouth salivating at the desperation for nicotine and he reaches his hand out. The man looks at him in pure amusement for a couple of seconds and holds out the open pack with only four cigarettes left. Richie drags one out excitedly and smiles at the man, aware of his face burning red. Fall lights his cigarette first and then stretches the green lighter in the other's direction. Richie almost snatches it out of his hand, but the man pulls the hand back nodding for Richie to put the cigarette in his mouth. He then extends the lighter, leaning over the glove compartment, and Richie's chest feels like a flame in front of his face. He inhales deep and feels his entire body turn into goo, entranced in the way a man's hand glides on the steering wheel, seamless and experienced, one elbow propped up on the open window.   

_If I close my eyes, you'll disappear._

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: creamy-brown-eyes


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door is all but splinters.  
> I don't want to feel.  
> Why are you making me feel?

There’s nothing but a nauseating dull pain when Richie wakes up the morning after his twenty-first birthday. His throat feels dry and bitter, the stale taste of alcohol and puke lingering on the walls of the esophagus. It’s a combination vile enough to send him running towards the toilet. The clear liquid hitting the water isn’t that astounding - anything that wanted to come out did so last night. Memories are a black haze, occasionally filled with snippets of the evening. Blue thong between tanned cheeks. Pink on brown. Stanley’s guffawing face. The green and red of street lights as they drove down Pine Tree Drive. His tears hitting the bottom of the tub.  _Plunk. Plunk._  Stanley was long gone.

Richie doesn’t know how long he stays there, nausea slowly subsiding from the coolness of the toilet seat. He flushes lazily after several minutes, unable to stare into the repercussions of his own mistakes. He doesn’t get up right away, afraid that any movement would instantly trigger another vomiting fit. He thinks of how to go about the events of last night. How to talk to his friends about the importance of boundaries. How to tell his boyfriend that they just don’t work anymore.

His head eventually slowly lifts up as if on its own accord, his stomach producing terrifying sounds that can only mean hunger, but the last thing Richie wants is anything in his mouth. He pushes himself up from the toilet and stands in front of the sink, contemplating surging forward and smashing his head in the mirror.  _When has life gone to complete and utter shit?_

Richie looks up, meeting the eyes of the ghost reflection of himself staring back. His skin is sickly pale, with a tint of purple green that people typically associate with things like mono, except he’s perfectly healthy. There are several broken blood vessels around the brown irises. The dark circles under his eyes have a deep red forming from constant insomnia and overwhelming stress. Last night was the first time he slept more than five hours in the past three years.

The acne on the hollows of his cheeks has gone into overdrive, feeding on lack of hydration. Richie bends down and splashes his face with cold water, rubbing it with amplified intensity. He opens the mirror to pull out one of Stan’s prescription scrubs and makes work of the tiny stinging beads, focusing on his cheeks. He’s supposed to leave in on for five minutes, but Richie decides to wash it off right away instead, caring very little about the long-term effects. He brushes his teeth quickly and spits out without rinsing, clinging to the relief that spearmint brings in lieu of a bitter taste in the back of his throat.

Richie walks to the dresser, rubbing his abdomen absentmindedly. He hasn’t eaten well in weeks, and it shows - his stomach isn’t just flat anymore, it falls in from lack of nutrition. He picks the red t-shirt with a little pocket on the right side, spraying a large amount of cologne all around, trying to avoid showering as long as possible. Someone undressed him the night before, and he feels fresh nausea hit the back of his tongue from the image of Stanley kissing his thighs after pulling the jeans off. He doesn’t know if it even happened, it might just be a recurring memory.

Pulling on a pair of old jeans he stumbles into the hallway, zipping up on his way to the kitchen. Richie just notices a fresh smell of coffee that clings to the entirety of the living room area. He rounds the corner to the kitchen and sees Stan sitting on the breakfast table, folded newspaper in hand. The ominous domesticity almost makes him vomit again.

Stanley lifts a finger motioning not to be disturbed, and Richie rolls his eyes.  _As if I wanted to fucking talk to you._ He opens the fridge door, ignoring the pancakes resting on the large white plate, butter melted on top. He knows his boyfriend’s schemes through and back: he does some shit-fucked move, fucks up their night, and then apologizes with greasy breakfast and a blow job. Neither seems appealing to Richie, and he ignores the food, pulling out the milk carton to pour on top of his coffee.

He sits down next to Stan on the table downing half of the mug in one go. His boyfriend doesn’t even bat an eyelash, engulfed in another boring political article, sipping black coffee from the smallest mug in their kitchen. Richie wants to throw it against the wall.

“You going to say anything?”

Stan finally lifts his eyes, a very disinterested expression on his face. “What do you want me to say, babe?”

“Don’t call me that.”  _He knows I hate it. Why does he insist on doing things that make my skin crawl?_

“I don’t have time for arguments if that’s what you’re here for.” Stanley’s eyes shift back to the article.

Richie’s entire body fills with rage so powerful he has to dig unkempt nails inside the heels of his hands. He’s done.  _Done, done, done, done._ Done feeling like he doesn’t deserve better. Done being with someone who wants a submissive servant for a partner. He doesn’t want anything to do with this relationship anymore. It doesn’t just make him unhappy - he is downright miserable.

Richie grabs onto the newspaper and gets up from the chair, throwing it on the floor. Stan’s expression barely changes, and he looks back at his boyfriend with an amused leer as if he expected this to happen.

“I’m fucking  _done_ , do you hear me, Stan? I’m done with this shit!” Richie knows he probably looks like a stubborn child but his throat feels tight and tears are stinging his eyes.  _This has to happen. This SHOULD’VE happened a while ago._

“You say that every time. And every single time you come back.” Stan leans into his own palm, probably waiting for another outburst.

“I mean it this time. I’m not sticking around. You need someone who’s going to keep up with your shit and crawl around you like a dying puppy. I’m not doing that anymore.” Richie’s voice is cracking, disturbing sounds of his suppressed sobbing filling the small apartment.

“Look, why don’t you go have a walk, and we talk later? How does that sound?”  _Son of a bitch._

Richie puts his hand on the table, leaning towards Stanley’s face close to get the message across. “I. Said. I’m. Leaving. Got it?” His voice is ice cold. He shivers from it himself.

Richie turns around on his heel, his head pulsating from receding anger and relief that’s shooting through every inch of his skin. He’s done something that was in the works for a while. He did this. For himself. By himself.  _I don’t need him and his controlling fucking words, and his manipulative ass sitting on my breakfast table every morning. Fuck this._

He goes back to the bedroom to retrieve a jean jacket and put on his most worn leather boots. There are no sounds coming from the kitchen, the only noise is Richie’s heavy breathing and the shuffling of jeans. Since the car he usually drives is Stanley’s, he decides to take a taxi instead, devoid of a specific destination. He puts his hands into the pockets of the jacket, feeling for the wallet and cigarettes. The pack is there, completely empty, but not the other item. Richie furrows his brows and then closes his eyes in realization, an image of a dollar bill on top of the black glossy bar passing through the blackout haze.

Richie sighs heavily and strolls towards the front door in haste. He doesn’t even look at Stanley, but he can feel the judgmental eyes on him, causing his hands to shake on the doorknob. The smell of fresh coffee is soon replaced with the scent of a moldy carpet in the hallway, and Richie smiles.

* * *

 

Eddie feels awkward. He never feels awkward. The fingers holding the cigarette are shaking, ash falling down in his lap. The pressure with which he presses the breaks is irregular, and both he and the passenger are flung forward at every red light. But he doesn’t hear the man complain as they drive around in silence, smoking, smooth rock music coming through the old speakers of the Toyota.

He’s never had anyone in this car before. It was his ma’s. He can’t afford a new one, and it fell into his hands after Sonia’s death, along with the house and anything else she owned. He sold the house a month later, and the rest of her belongings were sent to his aunt who he never held contact with.  _What do you mean, Eddie? Sonia would never touch you that way. Baby, she probably wanted to make sure you don’t have a disease. You know how the fags in your town are._ He wants to vomit.

Eddie eventually pulls over to the bar on Collins Ave, parking in two spaces to make sure that nobody scratches the doors of the car. He can’t afford to patch it up. He looks over to the man in the passenger seat, taking a moment to observe him briefly. He sees somewhat a reflection of his own exhaustion on the other’s face. Brown-eyes’ hair is greasy, sticking to the top of his head, there are slight burns on his cheeks that Eddie recognizes as the acne medication. When their eyes meet, Eddie’s heart clenches at the raw misery and pain reflected in the dark chocolate. He knows that look. It watches him in the mirror every morning.

_Look at this, Eddie, you found another victim. Why don’t you hit him? Hit him now and see if he runs. Maybe the pain won’t scare him. Maybe it will take him longer than the other. Maybe he even likes it._

His eyes start burning with approaching tears and Eddie steps out of the seat, quickly rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of the jacket. He hears the door creak and knows that the man got out of the car but he can’t lift his head from the crook of the elbow, afraid of his own mind.

“Hey, you okay?” asks the man quietly, and his voice is very close, Eddie guesses he’s standing right in front of him.

He finally lifts his head and squints a little, even though the stranger is conveniently obscuring the smoldering October sun, hanging mid-sky. The temperature rarely ever drops below eighty here. Eddie smiles in response to the warm voice, and he doesn’t want to feel as safe as he does. He doesn’t deserve to be safe.

“Yeah... um, I’m good.” Brown-eyes smiles, sunlight framing the thick black hair, and Eddie can’t help but want to know everything about him, against better judgment.  _I thought I’d never see you again. I thought you’d be nothing but a daydream._

Eddie starts walking towards the glass door of the bar, and there’s a typical jingly noise when he opens it, signifying their entrance. The whole place reeks of cheap whiskey and tobacco but it reminds Eddie of the club, and he instantly relaxes.  _It’s not sickly sterile. I hate sickly sterile._

They walk towards the orangey oak bar, taking a seat right in the middle. It’s too early in the day for anyone else to be here but Mike used to work at this joint, and it makes Eddie feel sheltered.

A bartender is in the back, and Eddie leans over the counter, grabbing a random tequila bottle. He makes a ‘that’ll do’ expression upon reading the label and leans downward again, snatching two shot glasses between his fingers. The man sits quietly next to him, looking over the small wooden pieces hanging on top of the bar top with beach paintings on them. He seems genuinely interested, and Eddie smiles at the smallest glint of shine in the other’s eyes. Eddie thinks he deserves to smile more.

“You okay with this?” Eddie pushes a full shot towards the man. His expression seems unreadable at first, something dark flashing in front of his eyes but then it’s gone, and he downs the tequila in one go.

“Yup,” says the man, popping the last letter and smiling wider than Eddie has ever seen. Eddie’s heart jumps straight to the back of his throat.

He downs his own shot, feeling the dull warmth spread somewhere in the middle of the chest. He sighs in relief and instantly refills them.

“So, are you going to tell me what you were doing there yesterday?”

The man seems taken aback for a second, confusion crossing over his features and then his mouth becomes an understanding ‘O’.

“My friends wanted me to have fun, I guess. I’m not a club person at all. Everyone thinks so, but I’m not.” Eddie just now notices how young the other’s voice is. His looks scream thirty, but his innocence is all teen. But Eddie knows how unforgiving outer layers can be.  _You’d know all about it, won’t you, Eddie?_

He clears his throat to respond, pushing the lump further down. “Why did you let them?”

“What?” asks brown-eyes, downing another shot.

“Drag you there. You don’t seem like someone who can be taken anywhere against his will.” Eddie’s eyes trailed up and down the man’s body quickly.

Brown-eyes laughs and Eddie honest-to-god wants to jump him right there. “Looks can be deceiving. I’m tall, but I weigh practically nothing. All bones.”

“Bones are heavy.”

The man grins and pushes the shot glass towards Eddie. He notices how long and bony the other’s fingers are. Eddie feels goosebumps cover his forearm. “Are you a nurse by day?”

Eddie snorts, filling the shots again. “Definitely. I’m all about helping the needy.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, and Eddie turns to see what caused a delayed response. The man sits there and just  _stares,_ searching all over Eddie’s face, then looking lower. Eddie feels his knee twitch as the stranger’s eyes get stuck on the hole there.

He nervously pushes the shot in the other’s direction but the man doesn’t move, fingers tapping against the bar in contemplation. “Gonna tell me your name?”

Eddie can’t help but smile. And he wants to, really does but he also wants nothing more than to protect this wonderful, young man from himself.

“Not yet. Why don’t you tell me about that boyfriend of yours.”

The man’s face contorts, and Eddie sees the jaw clench irritably. He wants to say that he regrets saying it but everything about last night intrigues him.  _Everything about you. I want it all._

“How did you know?” asks the stranger, downing another shot with an empty void in his eyes.

“He seemed like he didn’t want to let you out of his sight.”

“Yeah, he suffers from those tendencies,” says the man and his voice is strained and final, but Eddie wants to hear anything and everything. Press, press, press.

“Tendencies?”

Brown-eyes pauses for a second as if composing himself. “Manipulative.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Eddie decides to give him a break. He’s never too afraid to ask a personal question but the last thing he wants is to make this man uncomfortable.

The guy is sitting in complete silence, shoulders slouched and face staring at the empty shot glass and Eddie is about to ask if he stepped over the line when the bartender enters the room. Eddie instantly recognizes him, along with the distinct reek of a drunk man. Polly has always been like that - careless and generally very bad at his job.

Eddie quickly realizes something and is about to stop the bartender from talking, but it’s a losing battle with someone drunk at eight in the morning. “Polly-“

“Eddie! What a fuckin’ riot! Can’t believe you’re here this early in the day. Aren’t ya a night owl?” screams the bartender, leaning on the counter right in front of them.

Eddie hasn’t blushed in years, but he must be now - he feels his entire body burning. He’s secretly hoping that the man didn’t catch the name and turns his head carefully. The guy’s face is nothing short of pure fascination: mouth open, eyes wide and black eyebrows raised almost to the hairline. Eddie’s face drops into his hands.

“Fuck me sideways! I know your name now!” Eddie laughs into his hands and looks back at the man who is still grinning, cheeks flushed and eyes a little glassy.  _Shit, you’re gorgeous._

“Wait, wait, wait, wait a second. How come you have a client  _this_ young?” asks Polly, looking over the man darkly. Eddie suddenly wants to shield brown-eyes from view.

“He’s not a client, P.” Eddie  _really_ doesn’t want to elaborate on the implications of that word. He already senses confusion coming from the stranger.

Before the conversation gets out of hand, he pulls out a stack of cash and smacks two worn twenties on the counter. He nods towards the door and starts walking, waving goodbye to Polly. Polly works a lot with clients too. But he also doesn’t use protection, so Eddie hurries out in case the stranger is more inebriated than he looks.

Brown-eyes follows Eddie, and they both end up leaning on the car, lighting the last pair of menthol sticks that make the suffocating humidity somewhat manageable. Eddie stands in silence, simply enjoying the other’s company. He is pleasantly buzzed, feeling even more so when the nicotine spreads itself through his darkened lungs. Thoughts of his father come rushing back, and Eddie feels another episode of choking fear of death come back. But he’s not even sure he’d mind it. Dying. He’s inflicted so much pain, enough so that if hell and heaven were real, Eddie knows where he’d end up.

He feels eyes on him, and he turns to look at brown-eyes. There is some color on his face now, on both of their faces, and it makes for a nice change. Eddie doesn’t feel so empty anymore. The stranger is smiling smugly, and it makes the soles of Eddie’s feet tingle. He doesn’t want this to end.  _I don’t want to let you go, but I have to. I know I have to. I’m like a sleeping volcano. And you’re Pompeii._

“Hey, so I was thinking-“

“You do that a lot,” says Eddie giving the man a wink. He feels a smile tugging the corners of his mouth, and there’s something beating the inside of his stomach. It’s all too unfamiliar.

Brown-eyes laughs and Eddie’s eyes water instantly from the gratifying sound. “Right that. It’s unhealthy, I think. Nothing good happens when I do.”

“Same here.” Eddie smiles warmly, the muscles of his cheeks already used to the novelty of sensation.

“Are you hungry? There’s a nice Mexican place next to my office. We could eat there. Should open at nine.”

Eddie wants to ask him about the job. And why in the  _fucking hell_ a guy like him, with charisma and heart of gold works a stuffy 9-5. But getting to know him more might cause Eddie to get attached. And that  _absolutely_ cannot happen.  _No, Eddie, attachment leads to commitment and we all know you can’t do that. You can’t even commit to the same cigarette brand. Piece of fucking shit._

Eddie swallows the malevolent voice down and forces a smile. “I actually have a lot to do. I can drop you off home if you want.”  _Fuck. No. Bad idea, Eddie. You can’t know where he lives. Come pounding on his door begging to be loved. You can’t be loved. Piece of fucking shit._

“Oh… Okay. Um… Sure.” The disappointment in the man’s voice is as clear as the bright blue sky above them. Eddie suddenly feels the stifling heat approaching midday slowly but surely, and he wants to get indoors. The alcohol is making him sweat, so he finishes the cigarette, throwing it close to the storm drain without stopping. He takes off the jacket, feeling the tingling of burning UV light on his forearms. Brown-eyes is watching him, cigarette long gone, his hands in the pockets of dark jeans. Eddie wants to take them off right there in the parking lot.  _Take his skin off as you go. You’re good at hurting people._

Eddie blinks back another rising hysteria and leans on the car in front of the man, stepping closer. He can smell the unmistakable sticky sweat that’s not entirely unpleasant, a scent of strong, cheap liquor and expensive cologne.  _Smell of a man._ It makes Eddie’s mouth water.

“Are you going to tell me  _your_ name?” He shouldn't ask, really shouldn’t. But he wants to know everything.  _God, everything_.

The stranger smiles nervously, his eyes darting between Eddie’s eyes and lips. Eddie feels the tension resonate in his groin like a shockwave. It’s an avid reminder of how long it’s been since he’s been with someone  _he_ wanted.

“I guess you’d have to make me a promise that I’ll see you again.” Eddie’s hand involuntarily goes to the man’s chest, and it rests there, feeling a speedy heartbeat. It matches the punching of his own ribcage perfectly. It’s terrifying. There’s an intake of breath and Eddie is afraid to look at the other’s mouth. He might lose it.

“Sure,” he answers and puts the hand away. It feels cold and empty now.

He gets into the driver’s side and starts the car after a couple of tries. Brown-eyes gets in almost a minute later. Eddie wouldn’t blame him if he just walked away.

The man guides them back to his place, pointing the long bony finger in the direction of the correct turns and exits. Eddie’s eyes linger on those limbs longer than appropriate, and the stranger probably notices. A sweet strawberry redness covers his cheeks charmingly, and Eddie wants to press his lips to the color. They finally pull up to a five-story apartment building in a good neighborhood. Eddie saw a crowd of girls on the street corner so he might be wrong. The man gets out instantly and leans on the open window.

“I’m not going to live here anymore. Gotta find a place to crash. Can I see you some other time?” There is an alarming amount of hope in his voice that makes Eddie’s chest tight.

“Your boyfriend wouldn’t mind you hanging out with me?” Eddie wants to be closer. He doesn’t even care about the boyfriend.

“Nada. Kinda useless to ask for someone’s permission when you’re not theirs anymore.” The man nods towards the building and Eddie connects the dots.  _He said it as if he’s some sort of property._

Eddie’s palms are sweating where they’re clasped in front of him, and he wants to hold the stranger’s cold ones. Brown-eyes straightens and fishes for something in the pocket of his jeans. He takes out a business card and reaches it out for Eddie to take.

 

**RICHARD TOZIER**

**Sales Associate**

**(305)676-9988 ext. 667**

Eddie smiles at the name, something pounding the inside of his tightened throat. The logo of some nonsensical company is on the back, and so is the address of the office. It’s too much and too little information all at once. Eddie leans over to the passenger seat and waves the card in front of him, smiling.

“Thanks.”  _Richard, Richard, Richard, Richard. Rich._

“Okay, well, I’m not gonna lie. I don’t ever sit at my desk, but I’m gonna now. Please call.” Rich slaps a palm on top of the car and strolls to the main door. He bends down to wave before he goes in and Eddie starts driving several minutes later, tears slowly rolling down his face.

 

Three months will pass until he sees Richard Tozier again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... yeah


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I flinch at stranger’s touches
> 
> But anytime I close my eyes
> 
> I feel your fingers caress me.
> 
> I don’t think I mind.
> 
> I’ve never felt you, and I wonder why.

Eddie is used to the pain. It’s permanent, searing and uncomfortable but it is what it is. You do what you gotta do type of thing. Except, he doesn’t get paid nearly enough for this, yet he does it anyway.  _You know you have to. You know this is the only way you’d feel better. After all the shit you pulled? Forget it._

Eddie is strong. At least he wants to be. The greasy sausage fingers digging into his hips are nowhere near gentle, and he already knows where the bruises will start turning purple in the next couple of hours, merely a shade of maroon now. He’s thankful for the lack of mirrors in the room - he might have had to throw up from the view. There is only one room for these clients in the whole club, and the sheets are only changed once a day. Eddie changes them beforehand nonetheless. Regardless of how dirty of a person he’s become, Sonia’s words always ring through his mind.  _Dirty boy. You don’t want to be a dirty boy, don’t you, Eddie-bear? That’s not how I taught you. Show me how to be a good boy._ A wave of nausea hits him with the hard thrust of the stranger’s hips, and he swallows it down, along with his pride and shame.

He really tries not to go there. Eddie can’t really help it at this point. He has been thinking about the black-haired guy since the day he met him. He’s been thinking about the dark eyes and long lashes. He falls asleep shaking for bony fingers and gazes that linger. He regrets never calling, but he knows it’s for the best. Richard seems like a man who has everything he needs, and what he  _doesn’t_ need is a stripper-prostitute with abusive tendencies. Eddie is no stranger to his demons. He acknowledged them long ago and instead of pushing them further down, embraced everything that makes him… _him_. Eddie is physical with clients when needs be, especially implementing his aggression on those who ask for it. Sometimes, he goes to a bar forty minutes from his house to get four drinks and grind on an obviously straight male to get him irritated. Just to have an excuse to punch his teeth in. Eddie likes it, and he  _knows_ it’s wrong. Knows that’s not how healthy, happy people live. But he can’t help it. Which is why Rich is off-limits.

He has to hold back making any sounds. This man doesn’t like it.  _Pretty unusual, actually. For someone stubb-_

Almost every single muscle in Eddie’s body instantly tenses up with a searing pain on his buttock. He finished another cigarette.  _I should be used to this by now. Why does it still hurt this much?_

This particular client really enjoys inflicting pain, but he only ever does it with burning tobacco. And Eddie isn’t allowed to make any noise. There are no safe words or a little bell to ring. If things go south, Eddie is going to have to fend for himself.  _If there_ is  _going to be ‘me’ to worry about._ It’s not part of the job, but it pays a  _lot_ more than dancing. And it’s not like Eddie can say no to extra cash. He lives in a fucking trailer for crying out loud.

A burning sensation of a slap spreads in Eddie’s lower back, and he involuntarily jerks forward from pain, making the man drag him back harshly and slam in hard. Eddie feels raw and used, but then again, he feels this way most of the time.  _Just part of the job, I guess._ His mind drifts back to the young man with long black lashes and dark eyes. Eyes blown with mysterious interest, not lust. Eddie wants to feel his skin warm and soft under his calloused fingers, wants to whisper how he feels, how much he thinks about him. He daydreams about kissing him  _a lot._ Just kissing. He doesn’t let his mind wander too much because sex simply isn’t a pleasure anymore. Sex is paying for a couple of frozen meals and a can of Coke once a week. Sex is green bruises and sprained muscles. Sex is nail marks and bite indents. Sex does  _not_  equalfun. But kissing someone like Rich would be transcendent. Eddie doesn’t even know why but he thinks that brown-eyes is a great kisser. So great that they could kiss for  _hours._

He lets himself fixate on that as he feels the man squeeze his hips harder and jerk as the orgasm hits him. Eddie never allows himself to come unless the client wants him to. It can get to the point where it’s nearly painful, but it’s much easier for him to relieve himself in the bathroom afterwards instead of allowing himself to be  _that_ exposed in front of a stranger paying him to be a hole. It just doesn’t work that way. Eddie is not here to share pleasure. He’s here because he needs to buy more cigarettes and new underwear since his is all torn. He also needs to buy new shoes because he simply can’t glue the heels back on forever.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut as the client slumps forward and presses his hairy sweaty body on top of the small man. Eddie tries to breathe evenly, desperately trying to ignore the shooting pain in his groin from where his dick is compressed at an odd angle. He’s really trying not to think about the little shifts of the stranger’s body and the dragging trail of sweat it leaves on his back. Eczema on his buttocks is going to be so much worse tomorrow - it always is after an especially sweaty client. Eddie remains motionless, patient but ready to flee any moment. The man doesn’t move for almost full five minutes and all the small man thinks about is how he wouldn’t mind relieving his bladder and drenching himself in bleach.

The client groans loudly as he pushes himself off Eddie’s back, the sound of their skin detaching from dried sweat bounces off the walls of the room, making Eddie’s stomach turn.  _At least it’s over. I’m done for the day. I get to stop by 7/11, get my cigarettes, a bag of ice and go home. I don’t have to see this prick for a whole week._ The man starts walking around the room, no doubt searching for the wallet to throw the bills on top of the small man’s body like everyone else does. It’s like a fetish of sorts - the transaction is never complete if the money doesn’t end up either between Eddie’s buttocks or on his lower back, right on top of the tiny tattoo of the Sun. Whatever it is, Eddie doesn’t mind it anymore, and it doesn’t offend him. If he stays still and pliant, he gets a good tip. That’s all that matters.

“You did great today, kid.”  _Great. He never says ‘great’._

The man takes out some cash and Eddie can hear him counting, shuffling it between the sticky sausage fingers. The room is starting to smell used and filthy, and Eddie  _really_ needs the man to hurry up and leave. He’s lying on one of his cheeks, face turned towards the entrance, but he can’t see the client. Not that he wants to. The money land on his back and he can feel the weight of the tip on his bruised skin, and can’t help the wide smile that makes him turn the face in the other direction. There’s a noise of the belt, the familiar sound of fat feet making their way into some leather loafers and then the clamor of the dark red beads that hang in front of the door, and everything is over as soon as the creaking of the door stops.

Eddie flips onto his back and lifts up his hips to get the money underneath. He counts and counts and  _counts_ and smiles like a complete idiot when the number reaches $320. He  _never_ gets that much. Eddie doesn’t even know what to do with the money. He decides to treat himself to some McDonald’s as soon as he leaves, and  _that_  gives him the strength to lift off the bed. Eddie limps towards the chair next to the door that has his robe and a small plastic bag with lube and condoms. He throws the money into the bag and turns to look at the disheveled bed, all stained with sweat and the stranger’s come. It hurts to walk a bit both because he is exhausted and fucked dry, but also due to the particular interest the man has in twisting his knees until Eddie screams.  _I mean, I got three hundred bucks. Who the fuck cares._

He walks to the changing rooms and quickly finds his backpack hidden behind some boxes with supplies nobody ever gets to, quickly takes out his clothes and puts them on: torn white wife beater, old blue jeans and a pair of almost entirely ruined red Converse. It’s what he wears almost every single day, but the irony of the look doesn’t escape him. Maybe he should stop wearing those shirts. Eddie runs a hand through his hair and thinks he needs to cut it soon - it’s starting to get uncomfortable. His hands are sticky and so is the rest of his body but he is not willing to shower in this place. Not ever again.

Eddie stuffs the plastic bag with the robe and essentials in the backpack and makes his way to Jackson’s office. His boss isn’t there, but Eddie knows where the keys are and he quickly opens the bottom drawer of the table to get them out. He unlocks the safe in the furthest corner of the room, one standing above the mini-fridge, hidden under a large dinner napkin Jackson no doubt stole from a random restaurant. The entire office reeks of spoiled Chinese food, and it almost makes Eddie gag. But before he even gets to turn the key, his head snaps to the side as a blurred black outline appears in his peripheral vision.

Bill is standing on the threshold of the room, arms crossed and a smug smirk on his slightly red face. He’s obviously been drinking - the bright blue of his eyes is surrounded by the red hue of intoxication, and he’s slightly swaying even though his body has support. Bill runs a hand through his oily auburn-brown hair and wobbles towards Eddie. The small boy quickly opens the safe and takes the only stack of tips left - his. He locks it as soon as Bill reaches him, reeking of gin.

“W-wuh-what are you doing here, Eddie-bear?”  _Eddie-bear? Is he fucking serious?_

“Go home, Bill. You can’t work like this.” The small man doesn’t look at his friend and merely puts the keys in their designated place, and stuffs the money into the front pocket of the backpack.

“I d-duh-don’t think s-so. I c-can’t lose a shift.” Bill sways and his body slams into the table, making a couple of folders and an empty can tumble on the floor.

“Alright, I’m not going to be part of this. Tell Jackson I’m done for the day.” Eddie rounds the table and tries to dodge Bill’s hand when the drunk tries to grab onto him. He doesn’t succeed, and the dull pressure in Eddie’s forearm is slowly fueling the red rage in the back of his mind.

“M-muh-maybe wait for me? I only h-have another hour left.”

Eddie is about five seconds from blacking out.  _Billy, you don’t want to see me when I forget. I might just snap this time._  “This is never going to happen, Bill. Let go of me.” He jerks his arm, and Bill reluctantly slips the fingers across his small hand dropping the subject.

“S-suh-someone is waiting for you outs-suh-side.” He hiccups and giggles as a large hand flies to cover the slurring mouth. Eddie feels sick.

“Who?”

“S-some Richie guy. S-says you know him. M-muh-Mike didn’t let him-“

Eddie is running towards the back door before Bill finishes the sentence. His heart is pounding painfully against his ribs and the name  _Richie_ is jumping around his mind, making him dizzy. He doesn’t feel the pain in his knee or the burn in his lower back. The huge metal door flings open, and he runs out, panting and a little light-headed from the overwhelming fresh air. Garbage smell hits his nose from the black bags on the side, but he’s numb to all of it, scanning the dark parking lot for any sign of the man he can’t stop thinking about. Eddie walks a little further and rounds the building to the front entrance, and finally sees brown-eyes leaning his palms against the brick wall of the building, breathing deep.

Eddie feels like he’s about to faint. So many days spent thinking about him, daydreaming,  _dreaming,_ and he’s right here in front of him. Eddie was sure he’d never see him again. And he looks a little different - skinnier and less…enthusiastic? He can’t identify anything, and Eddie extends a shaking hand to put it on Richard’s shoulder. He almost reaches it but decides against physical contact.  _It’s too real. Touching him is too real. I don’t need more material to fuel my stupid fantasy world._

“Rich?” His voice is small and vulnerable, and he  _hates_ it, but the man instantly detaches from the wall, and turns far too fast, looking at Eddie with wide eyes.

Brown-eyes is wearing large black glasses and a very messy black shirt with some odd white smudges on it that Eddie can’t discern. Eddie scans his face and notices a slight stubble and same occasional white smudges around the cheeks, mouth, and the nose.  _Oh._

“Eddie?” The man’s voice is shaky and sort of pleading. It breaks Eddie’s heart.

“It’s- How much did you have?” Eddie points towards the white under the man’s nose.

Richie instantly wipes his face furiously and swipes his shirt too, his hands visibly shaking, dark eyes jumping all over the place. “You didn’t call.”

_What?_ “Is this really the priority right now? You’re barely standing.”

Brown-eyes scratches his forearm roughly and takes a step closer to Eddie.  _I should be moving back. Why can’t I move?_ “Why?”

Eddie has to crane his neck a bit to look the man in the eye. Now that Richie is closer, Eddie sees the red around his eyes, surrounded by long dark eyelashes stuck together. “Why  _what?”_

Richie’s teeth are kind of clicking together, and Eddie knows his mouth must feel bone-dry.  _Jesus._ “Why didn’t you call? I thought-“

“How much did you have?” Eddie is  _not_ dropping the subject. Richie looks like someone on the brink of an overdose and Eddie  _hates_ it, but he cares too much.  _Oh, you are in deep, deep shit, Eddie. Caring is bad._  He shifts on his feet, uncomfortable with their proximity and winces at the sharp pain in his rim.

“Are you okay?”  _God, why is he worried about me?_

“I’m  _fine._ You’re not though.” Eddie bends forward a little to smell the man. “Have you been drinking too?”

As if on cue Richie grins and stumbles forward a bit, almost falling onto Eddie. One of his hands land on the small man’s shoulder and Eddie feels like he’s been electrocuted, or  _burned_ for all he knows.  _Fuck._

He wiggles out of the hold while Rich regains his composure, but he’s  _shaking,_ and Eddie needs to do something  _now._ “Are you going to answer my question?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Are you se-“

“I’ll tell you if you answer. Please.”

Eddie sighs deep and lets his head drop, contemplating the reasons why telling the truth would be a bad thing. He forgets the reason he never wanted to and decides to bridge that gap. “I’m afraid, okay?” His skin feels like it’s on fire.

The twitchy smile on Richie’s face makes Eddie’s stomach feel weak. “Well, Eds, I would-“

“Oh,  _fuck_ no. You are  _not_ calling me that under any circumstances.”

“Eddie-Spaghetti?”

“No-“

“Edward-Spaghedward?”

“Are you twelve? I just told you something so fucking per-“

“Eduardo?”

“Jesus.” Eddie rolls his eyes so hard that he gets a small jolt of pain in his temples.

Richie is about to say something but instead groans loudly and falls to his knees, clutching his head. Eddie freezes in shock, and his whole body goes rigid in fear. “God, fuck! Why does it hurt? Shit.” Richie’s voice is pure pain, and it’s a little whiny which usually irritates Eddie, but he just wants to help.  _Shit, what did I get myself into?_

He lowers himself and sits down on the balls of his feet to level with Richie. Their proximity is making his head swim. “Will you please tell me how much you had?”

Richie pushes the glasses to the top of his head and rubs his eyes for a solid minute before answering, his hands shaking even more now. Eddie wants to hold them. Wants to kiss the pain away. Eddie sees beads of sweat on the man’s forehead. “I d-don’t know. I really don’t. More than usual.”  _Shit._

“Okay, man, cocaine withdrawals are  _crap,_ I’m not gonna lie to you. But I know how to get through them if you come with me.”

Richie tries to smile but his pale lips are wobbly, and he never gets to that expression. “Are you inviting me over, Eds?”

Eddie has to breathe for several seconds before responding, flexing his fingers as they’re digging into worn blue jeans. “Please don’t ever fucking call me that.”

Richie groans loud in pain again, clutching his stomach and makes gagging noises that are in  _no_ way staged. Eddie sits by him, afraid to make a move, afraid to do anything, afraid to  _touch._ Richie’s shoulder is twitching, and he keeps shifting on his feet, wobbling where they’re crouching by the brick wall of the club. Brown-eyes suddenly throws his head back, and there is a trail of blood running down his right nostril, already covering the bottom lip and the chin. Eddie gasps and quickly pulls the man to his feet,  _all touching be damned, he fucking needs help._

“C’mon, I’ll take you home.” He puts one of Richie’s arms over his small shoulders and Rich grabs onto him for dear life, and Eddie hears him crying. He wants to cry himself, but the weight of the other’s body is too distracting to concentrate on such thing as  _feelings._

They make it to the small man’s car, and he puts Richie in the passenger seat, grabs some tissues from the glove compartment and shows the man how to hold his head and keep a steady pressure. He buckles Rich in and carefully takes the glasses off the messy head, shivering when his fingers brush against Richie’s ice-cold wet forehead. Eddie quickly rounds the car, and his hand involuntarily reaches for the front pocket of his jeans, and he curses loud, remembering that he ran out of cigarettes.

Eddie plops down behind the wheel, and the whiteness of his knuckles is almost silver in the moonlight as he tries to control his temper.  _Yeah, Eddie. You don’t want to hurt him, right? Or maybe you do. Maybe all you want is to take him home, fuck him, and leave him to deal with this on the side of the road. You know, you really are a piece of s-_

Eddie shakes his head and quickly starts the car, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. They never come out, but he feels like tonight might be the night. He rolls down his window and puts the elbow out, backing out of the parking lot and into the humidity of the night, mouth dry and shaking, much like his passenger. They drive in silence with no music, but Richie is constantly fidgeting, and Eddie has to remind him to keep his head thrown back as they swivel through abandoned streets. When they finally pull into the large lot with the small trailer and a couple of cheap beach chairs in the front, he notices that Richie is full-body shaking, shivering from the cold sweat that drips down his whole body. Eddie quickly gets out of the car and walks to the other side to help brown-eyes out.

He nervously fiddles with the keys, and he’s sweating himself now because he’s  _never_ taken care of anyone but himself although he knows exactly what to do when you go through withdrawals. He curses himself from not ever investing into a normal home, and for the first time since he’s had his own place, Eddie feels  _ashamed._ It’s dirty, the dishes are all over the place, there are cigarette filled plastic bottles  _everywhere,_ and the image of his own home is  _nauseating._ Fighting through shame and discomfort, Eddie leads Richie towards the bed at the very end of the trailer and tips the man’s chin to attempt to stop the bleeding. It’s still going strong, although not as bad as it was just twenty minutes ago.

Richie’s eyes are red and pitch black, the circles under them reach the cheekbones, and the face is pale as a sheet. Eddie wants to kiss him more than he wants to live.

“Hey, I need to get you some ice. I’m going to start you a shower and drive to the gas station, I’ll be back very soon, okay?” Eddie is panicking, his heart is beating out of his chest when Richie blindly reaches out and grabs his hand. The heat of his fingers is a stark contrast to the coldness of Rich’s hand, and his whole body goes numb for a couple of seconds.

“Please, don’t leave.” Richie’s voice is so quiet and hoarse. Pained. Eddie doesn’t have a choice. He’s completely powerless next to this complete stranger sitting in front of him. The space of the trailer suddenly feels small, and the stench of cigarettes that seems to be attached to every soft surface is overwhelming. Eddie feels like his throat is closing faster than the speed of light. He jumps back and runs outside, falls on his knees in front of the car and starts sobbing, loud choking sounds filling the empty darkness of the night. The moon is bright and high above him, but Eddie sees black, black,  _black._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit's gettin' so dark here omg
> 
> and hey, it's been 3 months! was this planned? you'll never know (no, it wasn't lol)
> 
> tumblr: notsugarandspice
> 
> tell me what you like and don't like, loves <3

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the angst train


End file.
